Hilary acknowledged the introduction and Mrs. Baker plunged on, monopolising the conversation easily.
'I've just come here from Mogador and Miss Hetherington has come from Tangier. We became acquainted here. Are you going to visit Marrakesh, Mrs. Betterton?'
'I'd arranged to do so,' said Hilary. 'Of course, this accident has thrown out all my time schedule.'
'Why, naturally, I can see that. But you really mustn't miss Marrakesh, wouldn't you say so, Miss Hetherington?'
' Marrakesh is terribly expensive,' said Miss Hetherington. 'This miserable travel allowance makes everything so difficult.'
'There's a wonderful hotel, the Mamounia,' continued Mrs. Baker.
'Wickedly expensive,' said Miss Hetherington. 'Out of the question for me. Of course, it's different for you, Mrs. Baker – dollars, I mean. But someone gave me the name of a small hotel there, really very nice and clean, and the food, they say, is not at all bad.'
'Where else do you plan to go, Mrs. Betterton?' asked Mrs. Calvin Baker.
'I would like to see Fez,' said Hilary, cautiously. 'I shall have to get fresh reservations, of course.'
'Oh, yes, you certainly oughtn't to miss Fez or Rabat.'
'You've been there?'
'Not yet. I'm planning to go there shortly, and so is Miss Hetherington.'
'I believe the old city is quite unspoilt,' said Miss Hetherington.
The conversation continued in desultory fashion for some time further. Then Hilary pleaded fatigue from her first day out of the hospital and went up to her bedroom.
The evening so far had been quite indecisive. The two women who had talked to her had been such well- known travelling types that she could hardly believe that they were other than they seemed. Tomorrow, she decided, if she had received no word or communication of any kind, she would go to Cook's and raise the question of fresh reservations at Fez and Marrakesh.
There were no letters, messages or telephone calls the following morning and about eleven o'clock she made her way to the travel agency. There was somewhat of a queue, but when she at last reached the counter and began talking to the clerk, an interruption occurred. A somewhat more senior clerk with glasses elbowed the young man aside. He beamed at Hilary through his glasses.
'It is Madame Betterton, is it not? I have all your reservations made.'
'I am afraid,' said Hilary, 'that they will be out of date. I have been in hospital and…'
'Ah, mais oui, I know all that. Let me congratulate you on your escape, Madame. But I got your telephone message about fresh reservations, and we have them here ready for you.'
Hilary felt a faint quickening of her pulse. As far as she knew no one had phoned the travel agency. Here then were definite signs that Olive Betterton's travelling arrangements were being supervised. She said,
'I wasn't sure if they had telephoned or not.'
'But yes, Madame. Here, I will show you.'
He produced railway tickets, and vouchers for hotel accommodation, and a few minutes later the transactions were completed. Hilary was to leave for Fez on the following day.
Mrs. Calvin Baker was not in the restaurant either for lunch or dinner. Miss Hetherington was. She acknowledged Hilary's bow as the latter passed to her table, but made no attempt to get into conversation with her. On the following day, after making some necessary purchases of clothes and underclothing, Hilary left by train for Fez.
III
It was on the day of Hilary's departure that Mrs. Calvin Baker coming into the hotel in her usual brisk fashion, was accosted by Miss Hetherington whose long thin nose was quivering with excitement.
'I've remembered about the name Betterton – the disappearing scientist. It was in all the papers. About two months ago.'
'Why, now I do remember something. A British scientist – yes – he'd been at some conference in Paris.'
'Yes – that's it. Now I wonder, do you think – this could possibly be his wife. I looked in the register and I see her address is Harwell – Harwell, you know, is the Atom Station. I do think all these atom bombs are very wrong. And Cobalt. Such a lovely colour in one's paint-box and I used it a lot as a child; the worst of all, I understand nobody can survive. We weren't meant to do these experiments. Somebody told me the other day that her cousin who is a very shrewd man, said the whole world might go radio-active.'
'My, my,' said Mrs. Calvin Baker.
Chapter 6
Casablanca had vaguely disappointed Hilary by being such a prosperous-looking French town with no hint of the orient or mystery about it, except for the crowds in the streets.
The weather was still perfect, sunny and clear, and she enjoyed looking out of the train at the passing landscape as they journeyed northward. A small Frenchman who looked like a commercial traveller sat opposite to her, in the far corner was a somewhat disapproving-looking nun telling her beads, and two Moorish ladies with a great many packages who conversed gaily with one another, completed the complement of the carriage. Offering a light for her cigarette, the little Frenchman opposite soon entered into conversation. He pointed out things of interest as they passed, and gave her various information about the country. She found him interesting and intelligent.
'You should go to Rabat, Madame. It is a great mistake not to go to Rabat.'
'I shall try to do so. But I have not very much time. Besides,' she smiled. 'Money is short. We can only take so much with us abroad, you know.'
'But that is simple. One arranges with a friend here.'
'I'm afraid I haven't got a convenient friend in Morocco.'
'Next time you travel, Madame, send me a little word. I will give you my card. And I arrange everything. I travel often in England on business and you repay me there. It is all quite simple.'
'That's very kind of you, and I hope I shall pay a second visit to Morocco.'
'It must be a change for you, Madame, to come here from England. So cold, so foggy, so disagreeable.'
'Yes, it's a great change.'
'I, too, I travelled from Paris three weeks ago. It was then fog, rain and all of the most disgusting. I arrive here and all is sunshine. Though, mind you, the air is cold. But it is pure. Good pure air. How was the weather in England when you left?'
'Much as you say,' said Hilary. 'Fog.'
'Ah yes, it is the foggy season. Snow – you have had snow this year?'
'No,' said Hilary, 'there has been no snow.' She wondered to herself, amusedly, if this much-travelled little Frenchman was following what he considered to be the correct trend of English conversation, dealing principally with the weather. She asked him a question or two about the political situation in Morocco and in Algiers, and he responded willingly, showing himself to be well informed.
Glancing across at the far corner, Hilary observed the nun's eyes fixed disapprovingly on her. The Moroccan ladies got out and other travellers got in. It was evening when they arrived at Fez.
'Permit me to assist you, Madame.'
Hilary was standing, rather bewildered at the bustle and noise of the station. Arab porters were seizing her luggage from her hands, shouting, yelling, calling, recommending different hotels. She turned gratefully to her new French acquaintance.
'You are going to the Palais Jamail, n'est-ce-pas, Madame?'
